


The Bat and the Raven

by dogmatix



Category: The Raven(2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, GFY, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kind of a tag for The Raven - how it might have played out if Det. Emmett Fields were, ah, more than met the eye.</p><p>SPOILERS for the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bat and the Raven

Detective Emmett Fields lay on the ground, black hair a messy halo around his head, staring up at the overcast sky as blood flowed from his shoulder in a red wash of life. Officer John Cantrell lay sprawled to his side, blood surging from his slashed throat.

Emmet Fields had been many people through the decades, had served in the Roman army before the invasion of the British Isles, had been a city guard at Londinium and a cop in New Amsterdam, but through all that, one constant was that he always got attached to his men, and sometimes, some of them got attached back. The ones that found out about him, about his true nature, and stayed true, those were rare, and precious beyond measure. John was one of them.

Tall, loyal John who, upon finding out that Emmett was, well, a vampire, had asked with earnest worry if he should stop eating garlic. Emmett had made Detective a few months after that, but the connection remained. 

Which was why John had been out here, of course, along with the others who knew of Emmett’s true nature. It was always better, when going into danger, to not have to hide behind the polite fiction of being human. Especially when chasing a deranged murderer who was holding an innocent woman hostage while engaging in a labyrinthine game of cat and mouse with a writer of murder stories.

Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. Now there was one man he’d never share his unique gift with – the man was gifted with words and possessed of a quicksilver mind, heavens knew, but as driven and brilliant as the man was, it was the brightness of delirium, and an eternal life would be torture of the worst kind. Especially if they failed to find Emily Hamilton.

Emmett was deeply regretting allowing the woman’s father to come with them right now. Poe was already off and away, chasing the culprit, but Captain Hamilton was standing over him, him and John, gaping at the spreading pool of crimson that surrounded them. The bullet in his wound hurt abominably, more than mere metal should. Something… something was wrong. But there were more important things to think about now, and he stared up at his men in mute command.

Two of them hustled Captain Hamilton away, and Emmett let his fangs descend fully – no mistaking them for human now. Savagely he opened his wrist, and shoved it between John’s teeth, letting their blood mingle freely. He’d had enough of John’s blood recently that it should still be effective for a transfer. Endless seconds later John went still.

“Did.. did it.. will he-?”

“All we can do is wait, and hope,” Emmett said grimly. Hope that he’d gotten enough blood into John, hope that the condition transferred, that John was one of those within whom it could take root and flourish. Emmett’s wrist was already healing, but blood still flowed from his shoulder. Not as much as it would have if he’d had a heart to pump it, but enough to be going on with, and vampires were even more vulnerable to blood loss than humans, ironically enough. “Something’s wrong,” he managed, trying to sit up, “My shoulder…” And then everything went black.

******************************

Getting a bloody bullet out of a shattered shoulder wasn’t something Emmett usually had to deal with, and it wasn’t something he enjoyed in the slightest. That damned bullet. Spelled, or perhaps treated, but _something_ had been done to make it effective against his kind, against vampires. Getting it out of his shoulder had been hell, pure and undiluted. If McNeill hadn’t been available for a quick boost, he’d still be in bed. Even so, it had taken Emmett getting out of bed and staggering around in a meandering but determined way to convince McNeill of the urgency of the moment. Emmett didn’t usually drink that deeply from any one of his officers - his friends - but McNeill would recover in a day or two, and time _was_ of the essence. Even more so than he'd realized at first; his staggering had knocked him into the desk, where the doctor’s magnet for finding that damnable bullet had still lain. And that had provided the last, vital clue.

Now, he was racing towards Poe's place of work, the Boston Globe’s building, jacket flapping untidily and hair in disarray. There was still no word about John, but Emmett couldn’t let that distract him, couldn’t afford to focus on anything other than the confrontation he’d probably be walking into.

Sunlight slowed him down, but he was old enough that it didn’t make him spontaneously combust – still, it was a relief to get out of even Baltimore’s weak winter light. Not that the situation he walked in on was any less volatile. Poe held – yes, Emmett’s suspicions had been right – held the Globe's typesetter at gunpoint, but the suspect looked entirely too smug, and in front of Poe was a small shot glass with a cloudy liquid.

The suspect looked up, saw Emmett. _Moved_. Poe’s gun went off with a deafening crack, kicking out a divot from the wall. Emmett slammed into the suspect and they went down in a tangle of supernaturally strong limbs.

 _’Like me,’_ Emmett thought, shocked. _’He’s like me.’_ Emmett was shorter than the man; a bit stockier, but a fair bit shorter. But Emmett was still riding the boost from McNeill’s blood, and a woman’s life depended on him. The suspect may have been a genius at enacting gory and tortuous death on helpless captives, and may even have been a good fighter, but Emmett had several lifetimes of practice in being a soldier, a guard, a policeman. In other words, he fought dirty.

Emmett shoved the side of the man’s face into the floor, hand clenched tight in short brown hair. Their eyes met, and the connection sparked.

“Where is she?” Emmett demanded, _pushing_ with his mind. There was that familiar mental static as he met resistance, and the suspect spat something unintelligible and useless. _”Where?”_ he demanded, driving down on the man’s mind with everything he had, and a crack appeared in mental defenses. The man garbled out a line, something that rhymed. It sounded like-

Emmett looked up at Poe, who was paler than usual. “The- the Tell-Tale Heart!” Poe exclaimed, and both of their minds flashed over at the same time. “She’s here!” Poe continued with desperate hope, and Emmett nodded.

“Find her, I’ll take care of this one,” Emmett said, and Poe grabbed a hammer and started knocking on the floor looking for the entrance that had to be there.

Emmett dragged his captive out of the room, away from the intent Mr. Poe. He didn’t need an audience for what he was about to do. The captive jerked away from him, and quick as a snake Emmett kicked him behind the knee, sending the captive sprawling out on the wooden floor of the hallway.

In an instant Emmett was on him, police-issue wooden nightstick cracking him sharply across the back of the skull hard enough to pulp a human head but only enough to stun the other vampire. He couldn’t possibly turn this monster over to human justice. It took only a moment to snap the handle off his nightstick, leaving a jagged, splintered end. Emmett raised it high, brought it down with all his strength.

The dying vampire jerked and writhed, impaled through the heart. Arms and legs knocking against the floor, he screamed without air, mouth stretched open in silent agony. Not nearly as much pain as the sick bastard had caused his victims, but sometimes quick and certain was better than revenge. Even if it could sometimes be difficult to explain to the higher-ups.

In the room he’d just left, wood banged, splintered and thudded. Looked like Poe had found the path to his lady.


End file.
